I think my brain scares me, lately. S/X, NC-17, futuristic scariness.
Untitled Future Slave Fic
No one ever comments on it. It’s expected, in its own twisted way, a perk that a man of his stature and status is due without question or qualm. Xander isn’t the only one given these kinds of perks, but it still disturbs him when he thinks about it late at night. That’s when he can remember a time when he lived in a world that was green and warm from a golden star not so far away, when the air was clean and choices were that of good or bad, not the shifting shadowy grey that was what remained.
Xander knows that he’s turned into something his high school self would be disgusted by. Most of the time, he’s too tired to care about it. The rest, he’s not sure why he should.
The meeting is long and boring, and Xander knows that his input won’t be necessary for at least twenty minutes. Possibly longer, the way O’Connor is getting chewed out, her pretty features flushed with shame and terror while blood drips down her thigh. It’s her own fault, though, so Xander doesn’t bother coming to her aide. He already warned her, which is more than anyone can expect the way things are now.
A single gesture sends several bodies quivering into need, but it’s only one that actually separates itself from the pack. Pale, saturnine grace moves with a jungle cat’s restrained power over to his side. Xander doesn’t acknowledge his visitor except to drop a hand in soft, curling hair and tug it slightly. The gesture is small, but Xander dislikes spreading his attentions the way so many of his fellows do. Tiny gestures, facial expressions that only familiarity can read, are now all that this creature beside him needs. Legs instantly spread, body arching into a perfect bow to provide Xander with what he’s demanded. It’s art, in a way, and he can feel several other bored employees watching with appreciation. Xander’s constant choice has raised some eyebrows, particularly as his choice is always more responsive, more willing—even eager—when it’s Xander who gives the commands.
Perfect musculature holds without trembling, belly unmoving as Xander runs his hand along a hardened cock, tugging it absently. The first time he’d done this in public had been a stammering, nervous affair that had attracted exactly the wrong kinds of attention, but that first time is a long time ago. Xander’s grown since then—or maybe it’s grown less since then—and several conversations both with his boss and with the trainers have removed any hint of shame. Now others marvel at the complete control he has, and how casually cruel he can be.
Once, the President had sent his own personal choice down to Xander as punishment. To hear rumor, the pretty little girl who used to be Amanda, over in accounting, had yet to disobey since.
A hint of precome beads against the web between finger and thumb. Sighing, Xander removes his hand and drops it down to be cleaned: tongue delicate and soft as it singles out the drop, smooth lips running over the remaining wetness to dry it.
He’s got an audience now, but Xander is barely cognizant of it. Two other board members have followed his examples and he can hear the wet sounds of a mouth sucking slow and steady on various bits of flesh. That makes him think about what he wants, other than just a distraction. It’s too bad he can’t fuck during a meeting—well, he could if he really wanted to. But pulling his boy onto the table would destroy the President’s concentration, and Xander wasn’t so blase about his own attractiveness while fucking to risk that. The President had whims.
He returns to stroking, tugging on a cock that is one of the few uncut remaining. He likes toying with the foreskin, pulling it until it hurts and then letting it ease over the head, providing just enough pleasure to keep his toy from reacting in any way but what Xander requires. He switches to the silken sac now, enjoying the hairless skin that will always be so—slaves were shorn long before they were ever on the market. He cups and weighs them, bouncing them off his fingers. They feel so good, and he knows that his toy enjoys being touched and fondled this way.
Sometimes, Xander tries to engage him in conversation. It’s not nostalgia that drives him, for that’s an emotion that Xander’s long ago burned away. Nor is it a sense of camaraderie, for Xander knows that others have survived. Willow is a rising star on the east coast, her ruthlessness as highly regarded as her whimsical temper. Angel is someone’s pampered bitch, crawling at his mistress’ heels as she goes about her business. There are probably others still, but Xander doesn’t need them so he doesn’t look for them.
No, what he wants is to determine if his favorite pet really does like this. He’s supposed to, months of programming and still more of nightly conditioning should have done their jobs—Xander just wants to be totally certain. It makes him harder, to know that the pretty bitch who even now is easing himself down from his perfect arch, using a ballerina’s poise to twist into a kneeling position, head down, hands clasped behind that perfect back.
Xander had always known that Spike would make the perfect concubine. He just wants to make sure Spike knows it, too. He wants Spike to love every position, every request he so eagerly fills.
His fingers are blunt and clumsy looking as they tap Spike’s mouth. No matter, Spike still accepts them with a barely audible moan, suckling the flesh with every evidence of worshipful desire. Everyone in the room has commented on the devotion Xander’s choice shows him, but Xander knows how good an actor Spike is and that now is when Spike must give his best performances. Though he appreciates the respect it gives him, Xander does not believe this aspect of Spike for a second.
Once his fingers drip with wet, Spike releases them with a gentle kiss and crawls between Xander’s legs. The table is unusually high, just so creatures like Spike can press their faces to the floor, raising their lower half so that it settles cleanly in their owner’s laps, legs hanging over the side out of the way. It’s a horribly uncomfortable position, but it makes Xander think of flowers opening up to greet the sun. Spike opens for no one but Xander.
There’s no resistance as he pushes in, despite starting with two. Spike’s body is well used to this kind of game, accepting a third finger and then a fourth after only a moment. It settles him, in a strange way, the faintest tremors only Xander can sense fading into a kind of purring enjoyment that Xander sometimes marvels at.
It’s while he fingers Spike’s ass that his presentation is required. Without standing or stopping, Xander tells the board of his findings. His recommendations are met with reluctance, but Xander knows that the President is watching the way Spike’s arse rocks backward, greedily searching for more as Xander pulls away, then visibly relaxes the tiniest amount when Xander slides back in.
“He likes that.” The comment has nothing to do with procedures, but Xander’s been expecting it. “That’s fascinating.” The President reminds him of the mayor or what his vague memories tell him. There’s a kind of friendly excitement, almost innocent as he views a world he helped to destroy. “Look at him, all of you. If he were allowed to speak, he’d be moaning.”
“Would you like to hear him?” Xander offers. “He’s loud, if he’s given permission.”
“Oh, no, that’s fine. Wouldn’t want all that moaning and obscene groaning to ruin our meeting. It’s just I’ve never seen a slave quite so interested in being toyed with before. Not even the ones who really like it. There’s always, well, resentment. A little bit of disgust at what they’re doing. But your Spike, he’s actually pleased by what you’re doing. Well, well. That certainly explains why my bitch has been so eager ever since you got through with her.”
Xander can feel his social stock rising with every word. It’s a precarious gift and he could be plummeting in the next few moments. But he doesn’t think so. “Forgive me, sir, I should’ve been more clear. I meant he can still speak. He’s programmed not to lie, but he has the most interesting pauses sometimes ...”
Several people start whispering—most slaves lose their ability to speak the moment they’re officially sold. The President regards him with wide, clear eyes that hide the most twisted mind Xander’s ever known. “He won’t be able to lie around me, Mr. Harris. It’s one of my gifts! So yes, I think I would.”
Xander traces a finger down the back of Spike’s thigh and Spike pulls his legs down, somehow curling into Xander’s lap gracefully. The fingers go back in—Xander enjoys finger-fucking, torturing Spike’s arousal while the repetitive motions soothe whatever stress he has—and Spike tucks himself against Xander with a rumble of contentment.
“Sir?” Xander offers.
“Very well. Boy, I want to ask you something.” The President is terrifying when he changes like this, a cloud of miasma forming under his skin, leaking out of pores. Xander can feel the weight of his power and mentally reminds himself that he is allowed to be only so ambitious. “You serve him better than anyone else. Why?”
The implications there disturb Xander. Greatly.
“Like him.” There’s a sultry purr in Spike’s voice, not a hint of tension in his body, but Xander’s well aware that Spike is terrified. The increased pressure against his chest and arm, as light and subtle as it is, speaks volumes. “He feels good.”
“You enjoy playing the slut?” the President asks.
Spike’s cheek is flat against Xander’s chest. “Yes.”
“You enjoy being used? Having that pert ass of yours filled with cock, your mouth with come?”
The purr vibrates through Xander, hardening his cock even further, as Spike says, “Yes.”
“Because of the training?”
“Training doesn’t hurt any.” Xander’s slapped him even before the President’s finished raising his eyebrow. Spike flinches, then goes still as Xander twists his fingers until he knows he’s hurting Spike. “Not because of the training,” Spike says, pain and dismay thick in his voice. “The training just confirms it.”
“Because you’re a slut. Because you always were a slut.”
Spike’s response is nonverbal, a whine of pain that always makes Xander want to fuck him until he bleeds. It’s a confirmation, though, and Xander knows it.
So does the President, who smiles jovially. “Wonderful! A vampire who has always been nothing but a cock-hungry whore. The mental games you must have played, trying to retain your fledges. Well, back when you had fledges. Yes, Mr. Harris, that was a very good thing, letting him keep his voice. In fact, I think I’m going to do you one better.”
Rising, the President allows his aura to be swallowed back into his skin as he stands beside Xander—this is reward, not punishment. He pushes a finger into Spike’s mouth, noting the way Spike immediately begins fellating the digit. And noting the way Spike’s enthusiasm, while perfectly within spec, is markedly decreased.
“I hereby gift to Mr. Alexander Harris, member of my Board, one of my personal harem, the slave formerly known as William the Bloody.” The President waves and his girl, the unfortunate Amanda, scurries forward. A single touch to her collar makes the girl go rigid in agony, but after a moment, another collar and leash appear. The collar is belted around Spike’s neck and the leash handed over, even as Spike’s ass settles over Xander’s cock, taking it all the way in.
Xander isn’t sure if that part of it is necessary. But the President seems pleased as Spike rocks and writhes around Xander’s cock, purring his pleasure for them all to hear. Xander manages to stay still as he’s ridden, his mind blank as he realizes two very important things.
The first is that Spike does enjoy everything that is done to him, that he’s nothing but a cock-hungry whore but a selective whore that now belongs to Xander exclusively. Something that pleases Spike as much as the cock buried inside his body.
The second is that he had best be on his guard. The President's gifts always come with a price, especially unearned ones.
Xander comes as the meeting ends, Spike’s cock turning red for everyone to see. He is aware of the eyes on him as they are adjourned, the calculations and envy, cards quietly reshuffling even as papers are slipped into folders—and Xander grips his leash, tugging just a little.
Spike resists the tug. Just a little.